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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24381331">The Knight and Bishop</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HR_Lockhart/pseuds/HR_Lockhart'>HR_Lockhart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Vampires of New York</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi, Other, vampires patriarchy OCs Original Characters non-cannon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:42:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24381331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HR_Lockhart/pseuds/HR_Lockhart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Borislav Mikhailov is protective of his younger cousin, Abram Petrov. An incident had occurred and emotions are running high.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Family - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Knight and Bishop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I tend to write in short chapters, just so the reader is aware. I hope you enjoy it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter One: Setting the Board</p><p>Abram Petrov, Royal’s new husband and former bodyguard, had been missing for almost two days before Boris became concerned. Luckily between Boris and Royal, they were able to figure out that something was very wrong. Boris remembered that Abram mentioned he was going to meet with William the Wise, and seemed uneasy about it. Boris offered to go with him of course, however Abram had turned him down with a small grin and a brief reassurance. Boris and Royal deduced that some sort of “discipline” must have gone underway, but what? The only thing that could hold a vampire indefinitely until further notice was either imprisonment or to be buried.<br/>
Boris’ expression hardened as he looked to Royal, suggesting they get a pair of shovels. It was best to assume the worst. At least in a dungeon, Abram would be able to have the illusion of air, in a grave, not so much. But where would they start looking? Not in an actual cemetery, that would be too easy to find. The location had to be near William’s main property in New York. Somewhere not too inconvenient, but just enough out of the way to be easily forgotten if not observed. Boris was sure that formula would work, given how many tyrants he had dealt with in the five centuries as a nomad in Europe. The thought terrified Royal, however the logic seemed sound. Armed with two lanterns, the two vampires hurried into the more wooded areas that skirted William the Wise’s many estates. It took longer than both were comfortable with, the search had stretched from a single night to a whole week. Boris and Royal worked tirelessly, searching maps, making a list of places that they were yet to comb through. </p><p>It was the dead of night, a cool October’s eve and barely a sound could be heard save for two frantic shovels removing dirt from a seemingly fresh grave under an ambiguous tree. Boris was finally able to spot a big enough patch of disturbed earth. “There!” he cried out, “That area is upturned, I can smell it. Hurry!”</p><p>Royal and Boris dug desperately, hoisting clumps of dirt and clay away from the site. About five feet down, Boris called for them to stop with the shovels. This confused Royal at first, however they were not about to argue. “Hold the light up for me, please Royal,” Boris instructed, his feet carefully placed at the edges of the pit walls they had carved.</p><p>Borrowing Boris’ thigh as an improvised step ladder, Royal climbed out of the pit, then crawled into position, holding the lantern up to be over Boris’ head.</p><p>Boris’ hands scraped away the loosened earth with a feverish urgency. His abandoned shovel was far too blunt and clumsy to extract his cousin from that unmarked grave safely. A trembling hand rose from the dark, heavy soil, assuring Boris he was on the right track. Royal held the lamp dutifully as they watched Boris dig so viciously. Tears stung Royal’s eyes as Abram’s form was revealed, bit by bit. His head first, then his shoulders and torso. Dazed and weakened, Abram was limp within Boris’ arms as he was pulled away from that cursed pit’s floor. It was strange, surreal, to see such a strong vampire like Abram being cradled so carefully by Boris.</p><p>Now Boris was built broadly, and held himself as a bear would on its hind legs; a barreled chest, wide shoulders and a thick waist. The former priest had a structure to him, that would be warm and inviting like Santa Clause, but at that moment, Royal could see a protective man that would tear off the head of anyone who dared to harm his family. As Boris held Abram to his shoulder, allowing his cousin to cling onto him with what strength he had, Royal witnessed a scowl that sent a chill down their spine. That glare, thankfully melted away as Boris noticed Abram’s efforts to remain calm.</p><p>The larger vampire cooed Abram, soothing his back and gently spoke Russian to his cousin, with the occasional German phrasing that Royal was able to recognize. The words translated would go along the lines of, “It’s alright. I’m here. I got you.” Then a phrase they did not quite understand, however, felt the context of, “Tvoy brat zdes’,” which was said in such gentle warmth, it had to be a familial phrase.</p><p>What happened next broke Royal’s heart. They heard their husband’s voice break into a sob as he hid his face inside Boris’ chest, white-knuckled hands clinging onto the back of the dirt-smeared shirt as a child would. Abram, who was a leaner man in comparison to his cousin, looked so dramatically small, despite his height in a better circumstance.</p><p>Gradually, Boris helped Abram get to the edge of his would-be grave where Royal could pull him up. Royal was able to support Abram’s weight for a moment, their shoulder propped under his armpit and an arm around his frame. Through Abram’s dirt-stained clothes, Royal could feel their husband’s drained physique. It was if Abram was bled close to dry, he felt so frail within their grip. “Oh Abram,” Royal sighed, sorrow lacing their words as they supported him as best they could.</p><p>Abram’s head hung forward, eyes barely open as clean streaks were revealed from his darkened face. With a grunt, Boris hoisted himself up and assumed the position at Abram’s other side, taking a lanky arm over his shoulder. For once, Boris was grateful to be at least a little bit shorter than Abram, or this would have been an awkward walk. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Boris said.</p><p>Boris did the driving as Royal had Abram’s weary head in their lap in the backseat. The in-laws often glanced at one another in the rearview mirror, not entirely sure what to say. As Boris focused on the road, Royal could see those dark eyebrows of Boris’ furrow into dark anger. They could have sworn the driver’s blue eyes went from a gentle blue to a harsh icy color; a reminder that the kind-hearted man at the wheel was a vampire. Royal could not blame Boris’ disdain for the situation, they never wanted Abram to come to harm for anything. The bond the cousins shared, despite being apart for centuries, was admirable to say at the very least. Royal was grateful that Abram had such a level headed ally like Boris to come to the rescue; all their mind managed to do was come up with theories and no solutions.</p><p>Abram was able to walk properly by the time they all reached Boris’ little house. At first, it baffled Abram that his cousin would want such a humble structure, money really was no object when the purchase was made. Boris was a large fellow, surely a larger house would have suited him more; he was raised in a castle after all. However, Boris only wanted the bare essentials for this house, four walls, and a roof with good plumbing and a comfortable bed. Who knew that a tutor for royalty and nobles would become a minimalist? The yellow porch light that greeted the group, to Abram’s humbled surprise, was far warmer than any grand entryway he ever had the privilege to cross the threshold of. Royal quietly helped Abram undress and drew the bath for him. He leaned against the countered sink as he watched Royal, grateful as the reality of what happened started to settle in a more calm state of mind. Abram’s eyebrows clinched together as William’s sadistic expression flashed in his memory.</p><p>“Royal,” Abram managed to croak out, his voice still had a bit of roughness to it, “I... Thank you. Thank you both for helping me out of there, I-”</p><p>His spouse approached him with care, their graceful hands cradled both sides of his strong jawline. There was a coolness to their touch, one had the blissful feeling of water against his gritty skin. Abram bowed his head again, meeting Royal’s forehead with his own whilst he admitted a shaky sigh. He was at a loss for words.</p><p>“You don’t have to speak, love,” Royal offered softly. “Boris and I aren’t going anywhere. Take your time, alright?”</p><p>Abram felt himself swallow thickly, there was a dryness there, which triggered the memory of dirt attempting to invade his mouth while he was underground. Then he remembered Royal’s delicate hands on his face. His own came up to feel Royal’s to make absolutely sure they were real. Amber eyes peered up at his spouse ’s beautiful dark pools and felt safe. A sanctuary from Hell itself.</p><p>Boris had been pacing his living room. He had changed out of his dirty clothes into something a bit more casual, a short-sleeved undershirt, suspenders, and a pair of dark cotton pants, shoes included of course. Boris had prepared Abram and Royal’s room beforehand, providing fresh clothes, folded on the bed. The broad vampire wanted to hit something. Perhaps go into his yard and tear logs in half with his hands to let off steam. What had happened to Abram was unforgivable. He did not want to assume what had transpired, but he had a strong suspicion that William the Wise was to blame. Boris knew that bastard at a glance. The way his chin would tuck just right to show off the whole shape of those unearthly green eyes of his, how his teeth were always to some degree exposed. The Vampire King of America was one to flaunt his power, in a subtle but power-playing way, as a tiger would whilst stalking in the forest. It did not help that William reminded Boris of his own maker, Cerce, all those years ago; if the leader of the Myriad wore scarlet lip-stain and eyeshadow, he would have been a dead ringer for her. Cerce, however, had ghostly eyes, that was the jarring difference between her and William, the irises on that vampire were almost white, such a pale gray.</p><p>Boris shook himself from that potential and painful memory as he attempted to distract himself with a book. Perhaps something light, a thin book to warm up his attention span with. The words on the pages ended up being nothing more than visual noise to Boris’ rattled brain, unfortunately. Then Boris remembered the radio at the corner of the room. Yes, that would do nicely. It took Boris about three minutes until he found a channel that catered his liking, a classical station that played orchestral masterpieces. One of Beethoven's symphonies played as Boris heaved a sigh to finally soothe and reset himself. His family was home with him, for now, they were safe and that was all he could ask for. His favorite composer was on the radio, motiving Boris to move a bit more slowly. He busied himself for the anticipation of Abram not being able to sleep; he prepared a selection of what alcohol he was able to get his hands on. Prohibition was such a silly experiment, Boris thought. Deviant behavior was not born from alcohol, it only lowered the self-restraint and comprehension of consequences. Though, logically, prohibition was established to prevent fools from acting upon what they already held in their minds. He could not fault the implications of that theory. Personally, Boris enjoyed the comfort of wine compared to other alcohols. Vodka was a welcomed treat, being the water of his home country. To Boris’ chagrin, he had neither at that moment. So brandy and whiskey it was.</p><p>It was nearly two hours later before Abram emerged and crossed the way into Boris’ living room. He was exhausted, but he was clean. When Boris looked over at him, for a moment he saw Abram from when he was just barely twenty years old, wearing Boris’ hand-down vest for the first time. The clothing Abram wore was a bit oversized, thankfully not by much this time.</p><p>“I keep forgetting how tall you had become, Cousin,” Boris broke the silence with a gentle tone. He reached for his liquor selection, anticipating Abram’s need for a drink after such a stressful ordeal.</p><p>It earned a small, brief smirk from Abram as he made his way toward the rich green sofa, posed in front of a fireplace. Boris offered a short tumbler glass of dark-amber liquid to his cousin and sat on the other end of the couch with a glass of his own. Abram stated a soft, “Danke,” and sipped from the glass carefully.</p><p>Boris noticed an ever so slight tremor in Abram’s hand as he brought the glass to his lips.</p><p>“I’m alright, Boris,” Abram spoke up again, no doubt aware of his cousin’s studious gaze. “Thanks to you and Royal."</p><p>The former scholar glanced down at his own drink, traced the brim with his thumb as he became pensive. “I do not wish to pry too soon,” Boris began, “If you are not ready to talk about it right away, I understand.”</p><p>Abram nodded deeply, again so grateful for Boris’ unyielding understanding. It was still a chore to just process the series of events that had led him to that very situation.</p><p>Carefully, Abram drew what emotional strength he had and started to explain, “William was... not pleased with the fact that Royal and I got married without his permission.”</p><p>That caused Boris to clinch his glass and was thankful it was densely made. So it was him.</p>
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